The Way I Cared For You
by akisura12
Summary: Sherlock has fallen ill, and John is left to care for him. However what happens when the consulting detective disappears, and all that's left is a message from Moriarity? And why is this game so easy? Pre S/J slash fluff; Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Way I Cared For You

Author: Akisura12

Summary: When Sherlock gets sick, John must care for him. But John begins realize that he may care for Sherlock in another way. Especially when complications occur.

Rating: T; Light John/Sherlock fluff, but nothing very bad.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Drama

Warnings: Nothing this chapter. Later, a little kissing, but honestly, pretty much nothing.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Sooo, second fanfic, though this one is much longer and I actually plan to continue it. I wrote it on a nine hour car ride though nine states on my ipod while thoroughly bored and nothing much to read except Sherlock Holmes, a medical dictionary, and some fan fiction, so apologies for any strange typos, missing words, and just the utter overall strangeness of this whole story. And yes, this is slightly John/Sherlock, so if you don't like, don't read. However it's very light and nothing sexual, so the rating is low. Please read and review if you can! This is written based on a prompt I found, though it wasn't actually for me and I have no idea where I found it anymore. But it had something to do with a sick Sherlock. Hope you enjoy, sorry for any grammatical mistakes, Americanisms, or out-of-characterizations^^'. Hope you enjoy~!

**-Chapter One-**

Sherlock Holmes had been sick only 4 times in his life. Once was when he was a baby, and he gotten such bad pneumonia that it landed him in the hospital for 2 weeks. The second time was when he got chicken pox at 8, and Mycroft got it too. Third and fourth were bad cases of a cold, when he was an older teenager and a young adult. All four times, he'd gotten terribly ill with the aches and chills, as one who doesn't get often sick does. Sure he'd gone through numerous hangovers and pains and drug overdoses and withdrawals, but actual sick, only 4 times.

Today is the 5th time. He could feel it as soon as he woke up. His muscles ached and his head throbbed terribly. He was colder than comfortable and his throat hurt too. He hated being sick. It made him so uncomfortable and his brain would get muddled so that he was just as stupid as everybody else. He also always got high fevers too, and went on delirious rants.

However he hated being babied, so he soon decided that while he most likely wouldn't be able to keep it up once the fever kicked in, he'd hide it from John. But it'd be hard; John was a doctor, and a good one at that. After taking a shower, he decided that he looked well enough, if not very tired. He'd just tell John he hadn't eaten or slept in a while.

He walked into the sitting room to see John reading the newspaper and eating a piece of toast. He smiled when Sherlock came in. "Morning Sherlock, you're up early, though it's rare that you've slept at a normal time in the first place," he looked up. "It seems Lestrade might have a - What the hell happened to you? You look like you got...I dunno, but you look horrible!"

Sherlock grimaced. He should have known John would've been so protective so quickly. "I'm fine," he said, but his hoarse voice betrayed him. John gave him his 'Oh really' look, and Sherlock made sure to clear his throat before continuing. "I just haven't slept in a while is all." As soon as those words were out of his mouth, he realized how stupid of an excuse it was. He'd just woken up from a normal-person's good nights sleep, and that for him was like any normal person sleeping well for a week.

"Sure you are," John said, in a tone that most definitely did not mean sure. "Do you feel okay?"

Sherlock fidgeted, not sure what to say. It bothered him terribly, for only stupid people couldn't find things to say. "I haven't eaten lately," he said blandly, which was, at least, the truth. He hadn't eaten in two days, save for a cup of tea and some water, but it wasn't nearly long enough for him to feel ill about it.

John sighed, exasperated. "Well, eat something now," he said, motioning to the toast and strawberries on the table. "And drink some milk too," he added.

Sherlock made a face. The thought of eating made him feel rather sick, as if anything he ate was just going to come back up the next minute. "Not hungry, thanks," he said, not able to hide the slight tone of irritation in his voice.

John scowled. "Yeah, I know you're not hungry, you never are. But just because you're brain thinks it's too good for food yet, doesn't mean your body doesn't need it. Eat." He held out a piece of toast. It was well cooked, though not burned, and had more than enough butter hastily smoothed onto the top. Sherlock could tell from the way it was made that Mrs. Hudson must have cooked it and brought it up. Judging by the amount of food, she'd only anticipated John eating.

"You eat it," he said distractedly. "You need it more than I do."

John snorted, "Yeah right. Now eat, Sherlock, it's only good for you."

"I told you," Sherlock said, almost angrily, "I don't want, the bloody, piece of toast!" The sentence was twice interrupted by bursts of dry, harsh coughs that resumed at the end of his sentence.

John raised an eyebrow, both surprised at Sherlock's outburst and now worried about his cough. "Sherlock, that sounds pretty bad," he said, his tone changed from ordering to worried.

"I..." Sherlock lured, "Just leave me alone, John," he uttered the childish words harshly at turned to leave.

"Where're you going?" John asked, immediately following the other man. "It's raining out, and it sounds like you've gotten yourself a pretty bad cold."

"I don't care," Sherlock almost whispered, for his throat hurt so much that he could barely talk. He needed to get out, away from John. A small part of him had realized that not only did he want to be babied, but he didn't want John to worry.

"Well, I do," said John, his voice once again orderly. "I'm your - I'm a doctor, and I say you are most definitely staying here." Not to his surprise, Sherlock continued forward towards the door. John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock cried out in protest and agitation of the physical contact and being stopped, but John held him firmly. "John, I'm, fine." He coughed out, and his knees felt ready to buckle.

"Like hell you are," replied John, and pushed the complaining onto the couch. He could feel the heat of Sherlock coming off his back as he pushed him to the couch. Once he'd managed to get Sherlock - Who had by now decided trying to resist was too tiring and impossible anyways - sitting on the couch, he pressed his hand to his cheek, checking for fever. Sherlock made a noise of protest and being touched again and immediately pulled away, but not before John felt how hot he was.

"Sherlock, you, are most definitely ill," he said, trying to hide his worried voice behind orders. "I want - No, you are going to stay on this couch while I get some things. Understand?"

Sherlock could tell the last bit was not a question. He wanted to shake John off of him at walk out the door, but his fevered brain was making it hard to think of any good excuses. "I gotta...Lestrade, I could help 'im onna case..." he mumbled drowsily, his words slurring together.

"Lestrade can wait," John said, gathering a blanket in his arms and standing before Sherlock. "You cold?" Sherlock nodded, realizing that yes, he was very cold. John responded by gently placing the blanket on top of him. The extra warmth was comforting and appreciated, but Sherlock found that he was only getting colder. He gave up any act he was trying to pull on John still, for he could tell that his fever had gone up now.

John returned - though Sherlock had not noticed when or where he'd gone in the first place - carrying a glass of water and his small medical kit he kept at home. Sherlock groaned, cursing John's occupation as a doctor. He didn't want to he examined.

"Oh hush," John said, but his tone was soft. He held out a thermometer to Sherlock, who grudgingly took it. However he made no attempt to place it in his mouth. Whether it was because he was being resistant or just blanking out, John couldn't tell. But he sighed at carefully took Sherlock's hand, directing it to place the thin blue thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. After the press of a button and a beep, signaling the device was on, John looked at Sherlock's paler-than usual face and flushed red cheeks. He'd looked fine last night, maybe a little tired; though John had been surprised he'd gone to bed so easily. Now his eyes were red and watery, with visible bags and a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. Sherlock probably just had the flu or a bad virus, for it wasn't uncommon for one's symptoms to come so suddenly.

John was pulled from his thoughts at a series of high-pitched beeps emitting from the thermometer. He took it out of Sherlock's mouth at made a small noise of alarm at how high it read.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked drowsily. "Bad?"

"If you count 39.5 as bad, then yes, Sherlock, very bad." John pursed his lips in concern. "How did you manage to even get up this morning?" Sherlock just shrugged in response, no longer trusting himself to say anything stupid.

John sighed again at held out a glass of water and a pill. "It's just aspirin," he said, after seeing Sherlock glance suspiciously at the pill.

Sherlock took the water, sipping the cool liquid gratefully. It felt good, soothing his sore throat. However he didn't move to take the pill.

John looked at him expectantly. "What, does the great Sherlock Holmes not know how to take pills?" To John's surprise, Sherlock looked guiltily to the side. "Wait...You don't?" John asked disbelievingly and trying not to laugh. "But you were going to take the cabby's pill!"

"For the last time, I, was, not, going to take, that pill!" Sherlock responded angrily. The words were rough and pained, and Sherlock coughed through the words. It was a dry cough, nothing came of it, but it still hurt terribly.

"Okay okay, don't stress yourself out," John said smirking. "Would you drink the kids' liquid stuff?" Sherlock glared at John as he stressed the word kids', but he nodded reluctantly.

"Alright, I'll get some later," John smiled. "So Sherlock, do your head or muscles hurt?" Sherlock reluctantly nodded yes. "One or both?"

"Both," Sherlock croaked weakly. John nodded, writing something down on a notepad.

"Alright, and then your throat, does it hurt much?" Sherlock nodded yes, it hurt very much. John shifted and got out a little flashlight from his bag. "Say ah," he said.

"That's stupid," coughed Sherlock, but opened anyway. John peered into his throat and saw lots of red, though not much gunk.

"Mmhm," John mumbled, "Ears?" He looked into Sherlock's ear with the little flashlight, and his nose too. John continued to make "Hmm" noises and write things on his notepad. He took out a stethoscope from his little black bag and held it up to Sherlock expectantly. "Can I listen?" He asked. Sherlock nodded and John lifted up his shirt. Sherlock fidgeted as John listed to his back, heart and lungs, slightly embarrassed.

"Seems you've got a bit of tachycardia, though your lungs're clear." John said, more to himself that Sherlock.

John wrote some more things down before looking up at Sherlock. "Well, Sherlock, it seems that you have gotten yourself a bad case of the flu."

Sherlock cough-scowled in response. "I could've told you as much," he managed to say, before bursting into a harsh series of coughs.

John laughed, to Sherlock's annoyance, and held out the glass of water again. "Here, drink some more before I go. I'll be right back." Before Sherlock was able to ask where he was going, John had gone down the stairs. However he did not hear the doors close, so he was able to deduce, even in his fevered state, that he was just going to talk to Mrs. Hudson.

He stared blankly down at his drink, eyes transfixed by the small ripples. John told him to drink though, so he forced himself to drink a little. Last time he'd been ill, Mycroft had taken care of him. He hadn't enjoyed it. Distracted by his thoughts, he dropped the glass onto the floor. The loud crash made him jump with a start, alarmed.

John came running back up at the sound. "Sherlock, are you alright? What was that?" Sherlock did not answer, but John was easily enough able to see what happened. With a sigh, he moved to get the broom and dustpan. Sweeping up the broken shards of glass, John caught Sherlock staring feverishly up at him. John gently pushed him into a laying down position on the couch.

"It's alright, Sherlock, you should sleep," he said softly. He wasn't quite sure why he'd reassured the man; He doubted he felt very bad about it. Which was why his next words came as a pleasant surprise to John.

"I'm sorry..." Sherlock mumbled, already only half awake. He felt even more guilty and embarrassed when he heard John's phone ring and John say,

"I'm sorry Sarah, I know we had a date today, but Sherlock's gotten really ill...yes...okay...thanks for understanding...yup, and sorry again...okay...okay, bye." John glanced over at Sherlock after he hung up. "It's fine," he said tenderly. "We're both okay with it."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, blushing. That is, if his cheeks weren't already red, he would have blushed. John gave him a sort of annoyed but thoughtful look before speaking again.

"I'm going to go get you some medicine," he said lightly. "Mrs. Hudson is going to look after you for a little so don't give her a hard time. Sherlock started to protest that he didn't need a sitter, but John interrupted him quickly. "It's either her or Mycroft, and I think I know which one you'd prefer," he said threateningly, though a smile played on his lips as he spoke. The chance of John inviting Mycroft over was not one Sherlock chose to test, and he shut up.

"Alright," John nodded approvingly. He set another glass of water next to Sherlock. "Try to drink if you can, we can't have you getting dehydrated." He looked around, then moved to put on his coat near the door. "I think it'll only be about thirty minutes, and I'll be back..."John said, thinking. "But if not, be good for Mrs. Hudson, she's just trying to help you out."

"John," said Sherlock weakly.

"Yes?"

"It's raining," Sherlock said blandly.

John snorted a bit, though it was obvious that he found it strange that Sherlock had said something so obvious. That was the sort of thing he called people stupid for. "Yes, obviously, what of it?"

"...You'll get wet."

John stood quiet for a few moments, not sure what to say. He knew that while Sherlock seemed completely heartless at times, he did care, somewhat, for John's own well-being. However he was surprised and...pleased, that he was actually showing it while not in a life-threatening situation for once. "I'll be fine, it's almost stopped," he finally managed, still sounding surprised but gentle. "Don't worry about me, just try your best to get better. The world's only consulting detective can't be on sick leave too long now can he?"

Sherlock almost smiled. "No, I can't." John turned to leave again, but once again was stopped by an even quieter, "John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"...Thanks."

John smiled, somewhat overjoyed, though later he realized he probably shouldn't have been quite so happy about it. "You're welcome," he said, and opened the door. A minute after he left, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

"Sherlock dear, if you need anything, I'm right here," she said kindly.

"John," Sherlock mumbled feverishly.

Mrs. Hudson came over attentively. "What was that dear?" She asked, her voice affectionate.

Sherlock turned over so that he was facing the back of the couch. "Nothing," he muttered, and fell asleep.

A/N: So, did you like it? Please review if you have the time (but please no flames, constructive criticism is great though)! Thanks so much for reading, second chapter will be up...sometime soon.^^


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Again, nothing yet.^^

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Chapter two up!^^ Please R&R if you have the time :). Again, apologies for anything you find wrong with this story. Pre Sherlock/John, remember. This chapter mainly revolves around John.

**-Chapter Two-**

John walked towards the grocers, not rushing but still walking faster than usual. Five minutes ago he'd left the house that he shared with the now-ill consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. John had been surprised at how weak Sherlock acted while he was sick, and while he'd been somewhat resistant at first, he seemed too tired to even argue with John poking and prodding at him during their little medical exam.

He'd canceled his date with Sarah, and while he felt slightly guilty, Sarah had said it was fine. In fact, she almost giggled while saying so, which somewhat confused him. In that respect, it seemed that Sherlock was the one most bothered by it. John had never seen him look guilty for ruining or making him cancel one of his outings with Sarah before. It was obvious to John that the fever was making Sherlock a lot more open about things that he probably meant to be.

As he walked, John became more and more uncomfortable with Sherlock's apparent lack of self-censorship when ill. He flipped his cell phone in his pocket nervously, almost wanting to call Mycroft. He knew it'd make Sherlock angry, and he'd maybe even be able to tell they'd chatted when he came back by the guilty look on his face, but of all the people John knew, Mycroft was the one who probably knew Sherlock best. He yelped a little when he felt the phone suddenly vibrate, to the alarm of the people around him.

Taking it out of his pocket, he half expected it was Mycroft calling, somehow figured out that his precious little brother was ill and ready to help. However the small electronic device read 'Lestrade'. John sighed, though whether it was with disappointment or annoyance he wasn't sure, and continued to walk as he flipped the phone open.

"John," came Lestrade's rough voice on the other end. "We've got a case for Sherlock. I tried calling your house but some woman answered and said he wasn't available."

'Good woman, Mrs. Hudson is,' John thought to himself. He had no doubt that Sherlock, even ill, wouldn't hesitate to rush to the crime scene as soon as he heard Lestrade's voice.

"I tried calling his phone but it was off," continued Lestrade quickly. John vaguely remembered Sherlock lazily throwing John his phone to charge last night. He'd forgotten. Thank goodness. "So where are you two?"

John pondered whether or not to tell Lestrade the truth moments before responding, "Sherlock is currently at home being watched by our landlady Mrs. Hudson because he is extremely ill with a fever of 39.5, maybe even higher by now, and I am out getting medicine for him because -" He paused, deciding to twist the truth just a bit. "Because we haven't any that's right for him, so I ask that you kindly not tell him about any cases."

For a few seconds, there was complete silence on the other end. John had begun to wonder if Lestrade had hung up or been offended by his blunt explanation before he heard Lestrade's worried tone. "He's ill?"

John nodded, though he immediately remembered Lestrade couldn't actually see him. "He is."

Another long pause before Lestrade answered, "Did you see his arm?" His tone sounded nervous.

John felt irritation pulling at him after those words. He knew that Lestrade was only worried, and rightfully so, but for some reason it still annoyed him that Lestrade was suggesting Sherlock was back on drugs. He also knew, though not in detail, that Lestrade had played a large part in getting him off drugs only a short time ago, so he managed to force the annoyance down in order to answer the DI civilly.

"He's not on drugs," John said, "He has the _flu_."

"Oh," was the only answer for a time. Lestrade sounded slightly disbelieving still, but not aggressively so. "Well alright." He paused before adding, "In all the time I've known Sherlock, he's never gotten ill."

John wasn't quite sure what to say to that, though that did tell him that Sherlock hadn't been sick in some time, and therefore was going to get it worse than most would.

"Take care of him." John was slightly surprised at the sudden extreme concern in Lestrade's voice.

"I will, don't worry," he said, slightly pleased.

"Alright, call me if he gets worse will you?" Asked the DI.

"Sure," John said, and the two hung up.

By now John was in front of the small store near their house, and swiftly walked through the glass sliding doors labeled ENTER in bold green letters. He grabbed a small blue basket from a pile of like ones, and started towards the pharmacy area.

Passing by the 'bath&body' section, he stopped to pick up a few clean white washcloths. They had a few at home already, but John doubted they were completely clean from wiping up chemicals from various experiments of Sherlock.

Reaching the pharmacy counter, he stood patiently in line for service behind an old lady and a short woman with mousy brown hair and probably in her thirties or so. John had become more observant since meeting Sherlock, and since the line for the pharmacy always took a while, he tried to imagine what she was like. It briefly occurred to him that it was somewhat stalker-ish, but Sherlock tried to make him try it all the time and called it training as consolation.

Unfortunately the woman caught his stare before he could deduce much else besides she liked dogs, based on her keychain of a golden retriever. Fortunately she mistook it as a look of nervous worry. "Here for your girlfriend?" She asked kindly, and John quickly moved his gaze from her shoes to her face.

"What? Erm, no, actually for my-" John stopped, for he realized the next word on his tongue was boyfriend. But no, Sherlock was not his boyfriend, contrary to often accusations, or anything close. They were flatmates, and that was _all_. And that was all they ever would be. For some reason the thought made John more uncomfortable than the fact that he'd almost called Sherlock his boyfriend.

"-my flatmate," John finished awkwardly. "He's gotten the flu."

The woman looked a bit confused at John's hesitation in the middle of his sentence, but politely pretended not to hear it. "Oh dear," she said, smiling kindly. "So has my brother, actually, I guess we're here for the same thing."

John nodded, weakly trying to return the woman's words of sympathy and smile, managing just barely. The old woman in front of them was conveniently done right then and shuffled off, thankfully ending the awkward conversation.

"Well then, nice talking to you, I hope your...flatmate gets well soon." She said smiling.

"Thanks, you too, best of luck to your brother," John said, more easily smiling now. As the woman turned around to face the counter to talk to the pharmacist, John realized that he hadn't checked up on Harry in a while. Making a mental note to call her later, he stared around at the people bustling about shopping until the woman was done. She gave John a curt wave and another small smile as she left.

John nodded, lightly saying bye and moving forward for his turn at the counter. A young girl who looked recently out of college stood behind the hard stone counter. Her blonde hair was tied in a neat bun and her name tag read 'Hello, my name is: Jill'. She gave a slightly forced working smile as John came up.

"Hello sir, what can I do for you today?" She asked uniformly.

"Could I have something for flu?" The girl nodded.

"Sure, just answer a few questions about the person," she said, as it was obvious John was not he sick one. "Name, age, weight?"

"Sherlock Holmes, age..." He stopped, remembering Sherlocks refusal to pills. "Is this medicine...Does it come as a liquid?" He asked hesitantly.

The girl nodded, "I think so." She quickly checked on the computer in front of her. "Yep, it does."

John breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't planning on making Sherlock take pills - There might be revenge after. "Alright then, age...late 30s, or maybe 40s, weight...I don't know." John became slightly flustered at his lack of basic knowledge of Sherlock.

The girl nodded, not bothered by the specifics. "Well, he's an adult then...I suppose I could get that in...liquid." She said, chuckling a tiny bit at the end. John felt himself get slightly defensive for a moment, but then told himself that it was stupid, because of course Sherlock's refusal to take pills was funny.

"Alright, hold on a second," she said, and turned to ready the medicine in the back room. John looked at his fingers nervously, thinking about his strange new feeling of wanting to defend Sherlock. Sure he always wanted to defend him when Sally Donovan called him a freak so easily, or when Anderson refused to work with him because he hated him, or whenever people called him a cruel emotionless robot, but never in this way. He'd never wanted to yell at someone, let alone a complete stranger, for laughing at Sherlock's childish nieveties. After all, wasn't he the one who wrote "how incredibly ignorant he can be" on his blog, spreading the news throughout the internet. He hadn't felt guilty when Lestrade asked, "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?" But that was Lestrade, whom Sherlock seemed to trust, so maybe it was different. John found himself hoping it was.

The fact made him squirm until the girl came back to the counter and handed him a small, clear plastic bag with blue dots that held Sherlock's medication and a slip of paper that John had to sign. John paid and turned to leave, before asking, "Could I also have some paracetamol...liquid?"

A few minutes later he was walking home with two little bags when he got a text from DI Lestrade. 'He likes to listen to music when he'd not well. At least he did when he was going through withdrawal.' John smiled lightly and continued on home after sending 'Thanks.'

A/N: Good? So horrendous that you think I burn any hope of ever becoming a writer? Tell me (nicely^^') ! This chapter was shorter than the last one, sorry...Thanks again for reading~


	3. Chapter 3

AHH, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO DAYJA, I accidentally posted the wrong chapter origianlly, I'm sorry! .'

Warnings: Nope :)

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Yay, Chapter 3! Remember, pre slash S/J, though not really yet. Please review if you can, they make my day^^. Enjoy!~

**-Chapter Three-**

John Watson came home to find a sleeping Sherlock on their couch and Mrs. Watson reading a book at their kitchen table sipping tea. It was a pleasingly domestic sight, which was hard to come by at 221B Baker Street. As John walked in, Mrs. Hudson came over to him, cheerfully as ever.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for watching him for me. And, how was he? I hope he didn't cause you any trouble..." John said to the small old lady as he took off his coat and hung it on the rack he'd bought a few weeks ago.

"Oh, he was no trouble at all dear, slept the whole time," she said smiling. "There's more tea if you'd like,"

"Thanks again, Mrs. Hudson," John said, pleased.

"Oh any time dear, just remember," she started as she walked down the stairs. "I'm not your house keeper!"

John smiled fondly for a moment before moving towards Sherlock. The fact that he'd slept the entire time he was gone was both pleasing and slightly worrying to John. He gently felt the other's cheek to find that while his fever hadn't broken, it wasn't any worse. Sherlock stirred at the touch, but didn't wake. In a way John wished he had though, because that meant he was going to have to wake him with more force.

He sat on the couch that Sherlock lied on and spoke, "Come on, Sherlock, wake up. You've got to take your medicine." Sherlock still did not wake. John reluctantly touched the man and the shoulder and shook a little.

Sherlock woke with a loud noise of surprise and accidentally hit John in the face with his hand. John recoiled in surprise. "Ah - Dammit Sherlock, calm down!" He gingerly rubbed his stinging cheek before saying irritably, "I got you the medicine."

Sherlock blinked a few times looking slightly confused before clearing his throat. "Ah, well yes, thank you John. I, er, I appoligize for hitting you."

"Well, good," John said, still looking annoyed, though his voice was not unkind. He leaned down to grabbed the thin plastic bag at his feet, taking out two small bottles of medocine. "To apoligize, you can take your medicine and not complain like a good boy."

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, but nodded and looked at John reluctantly. John stood in repsonse and took a small medicine cup from his doctors' bag, which had stayed on the table in the middle of the room for the past hour. Pouring a bit of the first medicine into the cup, he talked to Sherlock calmly. "So, I'm surprised your brother hasn't called yet." As if on cue, John's phone began to ring in his pocket. John took it out and stared at the words "Call, Mycroft H."

Sherlock grinned, though still managed to look annoyed at his brother, somehow at the same time. "You shouldn't of said that, he probably heard," he said, and cough-laughed as John scowled and shoved the small, clear plastic cup at Sherlock.

"Oh shutup and take the medicine," John said and answered the call. "Hello, Mycroft?"

"Hello John, I suppose you've figured by now that my brother is not the most complient patient." John grimaced; He could almost hear Mycroft making his snake-like smile through the line. "I trust you'll take good care of him…Well, I'm sure you will. Now I'm in a hurry, so good-bye for now."

"Wait, Mycroft-" John started, but the government-controlling genius had already hung up. "Dammit, you Holmes…"

"He was in a hurry," Sherlock stated blandly, and John saw that the cup was now surprisingly vacant of any liquid. He'd expected it to be tougher to get Sherlock to do anything while ill, but it had been surprisingly painless, so far.

John nodded in approval and handed him another cip of the same sticky liquid, and Sherlock gave him a dirty look but took that one as well. "It's for kids, that's why," John said factually.

"I know why," Sherlock snapped, and drained the second cup. Finished, he handed it to John. "So are we done now?" His tone was barely that of a question.

"Not quite," John smirked, and presented Sherlock with two new cups of pink. "Paracetamol now."

"No."

"Now or I'll force it down your throat."

Sherlock studied John's face, slightly surprised at the sudden hard tone and looked for a sign that John was joking. There was none. Sherlock took the medicine.

"There, happy now, Doctor Watson?" He drawled, and looked slightly defeated when John quickly replied with a satisfied 'yes, very.'

"Want to turn on the tele? That'll probably make you a bit sleepy, after all," John said, turning on the set without waiting for an answer.

"I've built up more than a normale resilience to drugs over the years, John, I doubt I'll get tired." Sherlock said emotionlessly, though it made John shift uncomfortably on the end of the couch.

"Yes well, we can all do with a little, what do you call it, "crap tele", when we're ill Sherlock," and he flipped it to a channel which was showing reruns of House. "This show might, I dunno, pike some interest, for the both of us."

"Doubt it," Sherlock snorted, but made no attempt to change the channel.

"You know, he sort of reminds me of you sometimes," John smiled.

Sherlock snorted, "Sure."

"No, I mean, with your God complex and above-average mind and, well, habbits…" John trailed off.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but watched the show without another word. Though John did not often watch the show, he enjoyed it enough. However every few minutes he'd look over and glance at Sherlock, who looked - despite his previous statements - as if he were near falling asleep.

"You can go to sleep Sherlock, it's not shameful you know," John said finally, when Sherlock had suddenly leaned against John on accident and woken with a noise of surprise.

"Hmm," was all Sherlock replied. Ten minutes later, Sherlock was completely asleep, leaned against John's right side. At first John had contemplated getting up and leaving Sherlock to sleep on thw couch alone. He had things to do, he reasoned, and Sherlock, though he did not often sleep, was quite hard to wake up. Yet John stayed in his posistion on the couch. Perhaps it was because it was actually quite comfortable, and warm, or the fact that it only seemed moral to stay with Sherlock, but before long, John found his own eyelids closing.

He tried to stay awake as long as possible; Falling asleep might mean falling on Sherlock, which John wasn't exactly willing to risk. Not only would it be terribly uncomfortable to wake up to, but the chance of Mrs. Hudson finding the two of them sleeping together on the couch didn't exactly please John.

By the end of the show, John was asleep.

A/N: Sorry for the slightly corny chapter ending, but I couldn't help it ;). Thanks for reading!

A HUGE THANK-YOU TO ALL WHO'VE READ AND ESPECIALLY REVIEWED THIS STORY. I'm so sorry updates are so far and in between, but summer's coming up, so soon I'll have much more time to write…And a special big thank you to MOONSPUN_DRAGON who answered my question about edits from the last chapter. Thank You So Much! 3

P.S. Could anybody explain the whole Anderson-dinosaur references to me? I really don't get it^^'.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: Not now~

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: So, Chapter 4! This is a really long chapter. And the real plot begins…I want to thank FuzzyDeMash for giving me the idea to come up with this! Lots of worried John and official Lestrade this chapter. Please enjoy and REVIEW! They make me so happy.^^

Chapter 4

John woke up on the couch alone. A blanket had been thrown over his shoulders and he was lying on the couch in a way that suggested he'd been leaning on something - in this case, Sherlock - until it had moved. Perhaps he had felt better and was doing some experiment, then? A look behind the edge of the couch proved this theory wrong.

John bit his lip, slightly worried. Maybe Sherlock had gone to his own bed? He doubted it; Sherlock was barely ever in his room, and the bed was covered in his things anyway.

"Sherlock?" John called out. No answer. "Sherlock?" He tried again, louder this time, but still nothing. Worried, he got up and looked around the room quickly. From there, he made a quick search throughout the flat, including both John and Sherlock's rooms. John wouldn't put it past Sherlock to sleep in John's own bed if he had really wanted proper night-time accommodations. However his ill flatmate was nowhere to be found.

Frowning, John texted Sherlock, "Where are you? JW", and put on a pot of water for tea. If Sherlock didn't text back by the time it was ready, then he couldn't let himself worry. But not yet. Too soon.

Time seemed to inch by slowly, until finally, a high-pitched whistle came from the stove. Sherlock had not texted back. John texted Sherlock once more, "Where are you, please answer. JW". He put the tea bag in the water and waited a few more minutes. Still no reply. Now, John was starting to worry. Normally, he'd not mind too much. Sherlock left and disappeared at all sorts of ungodly times and days. However, this time he was ill and weak and vulnerable. He tried calling Sherlock's phone, but all he got was an answering machine.

John sent put a text to Lestrade, saying "Is Sherlock with you? JW." After a moment's consideration he sent it to Molly too. Mycroft would only be texted if these two didn't send back a reassuring yes. He assumed the two would be up, and at work by now; It was 8:30 on Wednesday, so they'd probably be at work. He took a quick peek down the stairs, calling Mrs. Hudson's name before remembering she went out with her friends on Wednesdays.

Lestrade's answer came first. Rather, he called John. "John? It's Lestrade. Sherlock's gone missing?" A slight sound of panic was in the DI's voice.

John nodded, then remembered to talk. "Erm, yeah, have you seen him?" Stupid question, he though soon after.

"No, sorry. Tried texting him?"

"Yes. No answer."

There was a long pause before Lestrade said, "Well, alright, tell me if he shows up alright?"

"Alright. Good-bye," John said, and hung up. He looked down at his phone and saw while he had been talking to Lestrade, he'd gotten a text. He draw a quick, excited breath, hoping it was from Sherlock. It wasn't. John sighed and opened it; It was from Molly.

"Nope, sorry, haven't seen him." John bit his lip, both from worry and the fact that he now had to call Mycroft. John by no means hated Mycroft, but he didn't exactly like him either. The man bothered him, and the fact that he somehow always knew where Sherlock and now, apparently John still managed to creep him out a bit.

The next day, John would have easily traded a call to Mycroft or even 5 more garage-stationed-kidnappings instead of the next call he got.

It was from a blocked number. John's hand shook slightly. Yes, he knew it was probably a telemarketer or something, but the only one he thought of made his blood run cold. He answered it.

"…Hello?" John asked shakily.

"Your owner is waiting for you, loyale pet," a high, mocking voice came over the phone. "I'll give you a hint - Sally Donovan might know a bit more than she lets on." And the line went dead before John could say anything. A text came through at the same time, also from the anonymous caller: It was a picture of a different flat, one John had never seen or recognized.

The call may have been anonymous, but John had known exactly who it was. After all, who was it that now replaced his nightmares of war?

Moriarty.

Neither John nor Sherlock had heard anything from him since the pool incident, in which no bodies were found except Sherlock's cut-up one and John's crippled self; That time John actually had been shot in the leg.

John gulped, his palms sweaty. He wiped them nervously on his pants and started to pace. It was Sherlock's habit, he knew. But after watching someone do it every day, he had gotten rather accustomed to it. He had no other ideas other than to see Sally Donovan.

He gathered himself and called Lestrade again. "Hello, this is Inspector Detective Lestrade, how can I help you?" Answered Lestrade.

"Lestrade…"John said weakly. He hadn't realized how shaky his voice was until he spoke.

"John, what's the matter? Are you alright?" Came the man's concerned tone over the line.

"I…I got a call. About Sherlock. From…" John cut off, feeling silly for being scared to say his name. After all, it was just a name wasn't it? If anything, Moriarity would be proud of John's fear of him. Harry Potter should've taught John better.

But Lestrade was able to deduce who it was John was talking about without John saying. "Alright, why don't you come down here," he said gently.

"Okay," John said. "…Is Donovan going to be there?"

A pause. "Yes, but don't worry John, she won't make too much fun of you when she sees how worried you are." Lately the haughty woman had taken to calling John Sherlock's boyfriend and that he was mental for sharing a flat with the psychopath.

"No, it's just…Moriarty," John forced himself to say the name with a shudder, "Said something about her. I need to ask her something."

"…Alright John. I'll see you in a few minutes, my office."

"Right," John said weakly, and hung up. He felt sick to his stomach. Why, of all times, did Moriarty have to get Sherlock this week, of all days? Then again, it was probably because of the state Sherlock was in today that he had allowed himself to get kidnapped, or forced with Moriarty, or whatever had happened.

He stared at the couch. Why hadn't he woken up? If only he had woken up…He tried to be like Sherlock, deduce what happened by the way the blankets were crumpled and the state of the couch and the position he had woken up in, but it was pointless, John couldn't do it. Sherlock would have scolded me, he thought in the back of his head.

"I'm looking!" John would've said.

"Obviously not hard enough. Honestly, how do you not go mental, it must be so boring in your mind!" Sherlock'd reply curtly. John wished it was happening now.

John, in a hurried daze, took a quick shower, got dressed and readied himself to leave. He brought his gun with him and walked out to the street, trying to signal a taxi.

"Police station," he muttered as he got into the taxi.

"Which one?" The cabbie asked pleasantly.

"I-the nearest one." John said, and leaned back as the taxi started up. He leaned against the door and stared out the window half-heartedly. It felt strange for him to be speeding in a cab towards Lestrade's office without Sherlock. He closed his eyes and made himself somewhat relax. No point in worrying at the moment, was there?

A few minutes later John hastily shoved a few notes towards the cabbie and got out of the taxi. He did not need to stop and think where to go, he knew the route to Lestrade's office from going there many times before.

Lestrade met him before John even stepped into the office. He led John, his hand gently pushing against John's back, to his desk and wordlessly sat him down in a hair. John wondered why Lestrade was being so careful; It was then he realized he was shaking. He couldn't recall when or where he started, but he was now, very obviously.

Lestrade held John's shoulders. "Hey, calm down, John. Take a deep breath."

"I-" John took a large, shuddering breath and managed to stop shaking, for the most part anyways. "Sorry about that," he muttered when he had finally found his voice again. "Thanks.

Lestrade gave a sturdy little nod. "That's alright. So, what happened?" He took a pen and paper out of his jacket, though John doubted there was much to tell. There was very little story. But he dutifully recited the event with as much composure as he could manage.

"Well, Sherlock's been ill, you knew that already though, and…Well we fell asleep, we were watching House you see. He said it was silly and he wouldn't sleep because he has a good resilience, but-" John stopped. He was going on with useless facts, always a bad habit of his when he was nervous.

"Well, Sherlock fell asleep, and so did I right after. And when I woke up he was gone. He wasn't anywhere in the flat. I tried texting him, and calling, but he didn't answer. And then I texted you and Molly, but you both said no, he wasn't with you, so I was going to call Mycroft and I got this call from…From Moriarity. All he said was-" John stopped.

"What did he say, John?" Lestrade asked calmly. His years of experience, dealing with high-strung wives and grieving family and scared victims was showing.

John took another deep breath and continued. He said that 'my owner is waiting for mr, loyale pet', and my hint was Sally Donovan might know a bit more than she lets on. And then I got this text," John opened his phone and showed Lestrade the screen, "With this picture. I have no idea where it is."

Lestrade nodded, finished writing a few notes, and took John's phone in his hand. He looked at the picture carefully. "Was there anything wrong with your house, John? I mean, was anything stolen or moved?"

John shook his head. "No. Not as far as I could tell it wasn't. Nothing disturbed either."

Lestrade turned his head over his head shoulder and yelled, "Donovan, here, now!"

The tan, frowning lady appeared a second later. She raised her eyebrow when she saw only John. "What, freaks not here? You guys break up or something?"

John gritted his teeth. "I can smell your perfume from here, Donovan, and I'm not going to lie and say it smells better than a-"

"Alright, settle down," Lestrade said pleasantly. "Donovan, John's had a hard day, don't bother him."

"Wha-But I-!" She was silenced by a "if-you-don't-shut-up-you're-in-big-trouble" look from Lestrade, who then proceeded to hold out John's phone to her, the picture still on the screen.

"Do you recognize this picture?" Lestrade asked. John could tell that yes, she definitely had, judging by the way she stiffened when she saw it.

"What? Where did you - why?" She ended, her voice grating on John's nerves.

"Answer the question," Lestrade said, his voice hard.

"Fine, it's - it's the flat Sherlock and I lived in together." Her voice was cold, maybe a bit angry, perhaps even…Regretful? John unconsciously glared at her. "It was only for a week," she said defensively at John's sudden dangerous look of malice. "I couldn't handle living with someone like him, and obviously he found another flatmate anyways…"

"I need you to tell me the address," Lestrade ordered.

"But - why?" Sally complained, but was once again subject to a menacing glare on the part of Lestrade and answered with a sigh, "141B, Livingston Road." John distractedly wondered if Sherlock just happened to like having "B" in his addresses.

Lestrade nodded with approval. "Right, let's go then. Sally, you're coming with us." He yelled again, "Anderson!"

The nasal man appeared in the doorway.

"Go to Sherlock's flat. Make sure there's nothing suspicious." Then, seeing John's look of exasperation and Anderson's of glee, he said, "You are under strict orders not to meddle with anything. If I hear you did one thing out of line I'll have you gone. Are we clear on that?"

Anderson's eyes widened with surprise and annoyance, but muttered "Yes sir," anyways and stalked off. John couldn't help but feel a bit happy at Anderson's expense.

"Right then," Lestrade turned back to John and Sally. "To Livingston then, shall we?" And the two followed the DI. John couldn't help but feel impressed with Lestrade today.

Meanwhile, Sherlock lying on a cold basement floor.

A/N: Like it? Reviews are lovely, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Classes end Monday, so summer'll bring quicker updates (though this was a pretty quick and fairly long update, I think). Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Warnings: Moriarity being creapy.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: This is basically a filler chapter; A bridge between the last chapter, what's happening with Sherlock, and Donovan's story…The next chapter'll be a proper one, I promise. Oh, and just saying, the rating went up to T. Just in case anybody cared. Only because Moriarty is creepy and crazy.

**Chapter 5**

When Sherlock woke up, he couldn't feel anything. He was lying on a cold, damp cement floor in complete darkness. There was a drip inserted in his wrist, the line leading to a thin metal pole. It was the only thing in the room that he could see.

He leaned over and threw up. It didn't hurt, for whatever was flowing through his veins had impaired his senses. However it wasn't pleasant. He lay back down the way he had been before, too tired to think or do anything.

"Find a way out," he said aloud, but it was no use; He couldn't think properly at all.

A singular door opened, a small ray of light filtering through the crack. Sherlock realized he was in a basement. There was a furnace in the very corner, though inactive, and a coil of rope next to it. But that was all. For some reason it felt vaguely familiar to Sherlock, but he couldn't place it.

"Hello there Sherlock!" A singsong voice broke through the darkness. Sherlock shuddered at the sound. A single name ran through his head: Moriarty.

"Where am I?" Sherlock attempted to demand, but it was weak and shaky.

Moriarty clucked his tongue and said in a mocking tone, "Why Sherlock, I can't tell you that now can I? It'd spoil all the fun."

Sherlock growled at started to tug on his I.V. He needed it out; He needed to think.

"Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn't do that _Sherly_. See, the contents of that bag is something between morphine…and a few other drugs. It's keeping you from feeling all the pain you're going to be in if you don't have it though." Moriarty grinned at Sherlocks pained glare as he stopped fiddling with the line. "That's a good boy."

"Where's John," Sherlock managed to demand. He rolled himself onto his stomach with effort so that he could see Moriarity better. A dull ache appeared as he moved, but he ignored it.

Moriarty laughed, a screeching, taunting laugh. "Ah Sherlock, always looking out for your pet."

"John's not my pet, now where is he?" Sherlock yelled.

"I'm sure he's coming to get you soon, dear." Moriarty crooned. "But meanwhile, while don't we play house, shall we? I'm the daddy and you're the mummy." Moriarty flashed his teeth dangerously.

"House?" Sherlock spat.

"Oh, don't stress yourself too much honey," Moriarty said softly. "All I did was get rid of the dog. So it's just you and me now." Moriarty's eyes flashed with danger and a twisted sense of glee.

Sherlock wondered with surprisingly concern for himself what Moriarty meant by "got rid of" John. Did he mean John was out of his way as in he just wasn't here, or was shipped to America, or, God forbid, dead already?

"Well, good-night my dear, I'll see you in the morning." Moriarty smiled thinly again and walked out. Sherlock heard the door lock with a loud click and rolled back onto his stomach. He had only one though: Was John safe?

+-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-+

"So," Lestrade said, trying to break the awkward silence that had filled up he car that he, John ans Donovan were currently riding in. "Donovan, why don't you tell John: When did you live with Sherlock?"

Donovan, who was currently sitting in the back seat of the car with John, scowled. "I never really lived with him. I mean, I met him, we tried being flatmates, it didn't work, I met him on him on the job a few years later. S'all there is to it." She ended stubbornly.

"Bet you even took up Mycroft's offer," John muttered bitterly.

"John," Lestrade said warningly. "We've still a while to get there, so why don't you tell use what happened Donovan?"

It was easy to tell Donovan was clearly uncomfortable and wanted to say "no, piss off Lestrade," so badly it could practically be heard anyways. But when the man asking was both your boss and a head of the police, it's hard to say no. "Sure," she said, defeated, and began to tell John and Lestrade what had happened in her week with Sherlock.

A/N: Hey…Is a beta just a person who proof-reads your work? I mean, I proofread my own worm, but it's done on my ipod with no spellcheck, so I apologize for any weird errors. If anyone wants to beta the story I'd love it, if that's what it means.^^


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I read and love them all, and will always reply if it's allowed. I want to give a special thanks to elfmaiden4legs, for giving me a beautiful review that had constructive criticism and was long and informative. Every one else too, your words always make me smile! Thank you so much.^^ Enjoy this chapter: It's all about Sally. I know, I'm not a fan of her either, but I'll try to keep the bitchiness down. By the way, I'm guessing Sherlock's in his mid-30s and Sally's a bit younger. Cookies to anyone who gets the reference to the episode of Have I Got News For You (I think it was) that Benedict Cumberbatch hosted. Sorry for being a week late in the update date I gave some of you, I actually finished this a while ago, I just didn't have time to edit...

Warnings: Some swearing…Also some implied Lestrade/Mycroft, though it can _easily_ just be taken as friendship.

**Chapter 6**

7 Years Ago

Sally Donovan was one of those people who never seemed to age much. As a child she had hated it - even at 14 teachers would still ask her how old she was and if she had skipped a grade or more, as if she was a tall primary schooler or something of the sort. But now, at age 25, she didn't mind the trait. It was good for looking more attractive, she thought.

When people asked her how old she was, she'd say "guess" in a flirtatious tone and give them her best smile. Usually people would say 20, or 22. Sherlock Holmes did not.

She had been planning on working with the police since she was young, and she had just finished her education. But she decided to take a year off, find herself a flatmate, try something different just in case she liked that better. So it was that she asked Mr. Lestrade, an inspector who had come in and talked to one of her college classes once - advanced forensics - if that was a wise plan. He'd been perfectly unhelpful, shrugging and saying "It's your choice, no one else's."

He did, however, introduce her to someone he knew who also needed a flat share. Rather, the man walked right in on their conversation. Lestrade was finishing his ineffectual speach, awkwardly advising her to do what she felt was best, when a tall, skinny man with curly black hair and an air of excitement around him burst in through the office doors.

"I've found it! Ooh, this is good, yes…" He mumbled excitedly, rubbing his hands together. Sally vaguely thought that wasn't that something only cartoon characters did? The man started talking about something Sally did not understand at all, before he actually realized she was there.

"And so, if the killer lived like this and owned a cat, then obviously - Oh. Hello there." The man honestly looked like he hadn't even sensed her presence until then.

Sally frowned, slightly insulted. "Hello. Sally, Sally Donovan, nice to meet you." _Not really._ "Are…You a member of the police?"

The man snorted, and it almost made Sally angry. "No, not police. A, er, _consultant_." He paused, as if not sure what to say next. "Ah, and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

Sally wasn't quite sure to say then. Lestrade was giving Sherlock a weak, encouraging smile, and Sherlock's eyes had grown a bit brighter. It was like a kid getting excited over their parent's offhand compliment. She subconsciously wondered if the said man had Asperger's, or some other social incapability going on.

Lestrade motioned his hand towards Donovan, interrupting her thoughts. "Ah, Sherlock, Miss Donovan here was just saying how she was thinking about investing in a flat share, and I know - " The DI was cut off by a glare from Sherlock that said 'I-don't-want-a-bloody-flatmate-now-piss-off.' "Will you excuse us for a minute, Miss Donovan?" Lestrade said weakly, and pulled Sherlock by the elbow in a corner, where the two started a rather heated argument that Sally couldn't understand. Something about a mycroft, what ever that was, and cases and money and other nonsense.

While they settled their row she pondered the idea of having the newly-introduced man, Sherlock, as a flatmate, trying to think as economically and un-baised as possible. _Fact_: Sherlock was a man, and an apparently rather strange one at that. _Fact_: If she was getting a flat, a flatmate was a must. _Observation_: Sherlock looked like he had a lot of money. Or at least his family did. He was dressed as posh and ironed as any successful business man, yet he was not wearing a tie, which suggested the style was of his own choice. The clothes looked expensive. Hence the notion Sally got that Sherlock had money. _Opinion_: Sherlock was good looking. Not that she'd want it from someone as odd as him - most likely - but…God, she needed a damn good shag. She immediately blushed at that thought. God, what was _wrong_ with her?

Lestrade came back a moment later with a grumpy looking Sherlock. "If you'd like, why don't you two try the flat together? The landlord gives everyone two weeks to decide whether or not they plan to pay for the flat, so how about it?" He looked clammy and nervous, though it was no wonder with the taller man glaring daggers at him a foot away.

Sally give a weak, "hmm," which constituted as yes, and looked up at Sherlock. "So, where is it?" _'I get no say in this?'_ She thought to herself, slightly more agitated then she let on.

"The address is 141B, Livingstin Road, let's meet tomorrow at 12," Sherlock said pleasantly. "Seeing as you're free-" Lestrade gave a loud, forced sigh and Sherlock growled. "Seeing as you're _probably_ free, as you're currently unemployed, I think it's a good time to meet." And without waiting for an answer, he turned heal and rushed out the door.

"Sure," Sally said, but he was gone. She looked at Lestrade, confused.

"Don't worry, he's not always…Who am I kidding, he's always like that, sorry." Lestrade moaned, and he did honestly sound sorry.

+-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-+

The next day, Sally found herself stepping out of a cab in front of the flat where Sherlock had told her about. She had tried to convince herself otherwise - This man was obviously unusual, if their first meeting said anything. Then again, don't judge a book by its cover, right? Not that it hadn't stopped her in the past. Not like she had often been _wrong_ in the past.

The flat looked simple enough - Well oriented, reasonably priced, and in a pretty good neighbourhood. It was close to a small grocer's shop too, which could be convenient. She assumed the inside would be fairly nice too.

Sherlock was already waiting for her at the door, tapping his foot impatiently and texting furiously. When he saw Sally he smiled, though it was so snake-like that Sally nearly shivered. She looked at her watch - It was 11:50. She was 10 minutes early, and the man looked agitated as someone who'd waited for 45.

"Ah, Miss Donovan!" He said, a forced cheerful tone making its way towards her loudly._ 'His voice really is quite deep'_, she thought to herself.

"Please, call me Sally." She said smiling, though it was also tight and forced. "I'm much to young to be called Miss." She said it with an air of casualty and good humour, but Sherlock looked at her strangely. She felt herself go defensive.

"Really? 25 and you're still not called Miss? I'm surprised. Then again, you do look young, what with the facial cream you use. It's good, though - " He stopped, leaving Sally very disturbed. She had no idea how he knew those things about her. The comment on her facial cream made her feel a bit...stalked.

"O - oh…" She said weakly, "R - _right_. Well, um, shall we go up?" This man was so _odd!_

Sherlock nodded, looking somewhat relieved. 'Perhaps he just looked me up on the internet last night? Yes, that would make sense. I have a good amount of information up, and I'm sure my age was mentioned somewhere. And I probably told one of my friends about my face cream, right.' "Use the internet much?" She probed.

Sherlock looked at her questioningly, "Sometimes. Though not on things most people use, like social networking sites." _'Porn, then?'_ "I just use it for cases." _'Oh. Well, that's relieving.' _"Oh, and my blog, but I don't update it very much. I mean, _really_, nearly 7 billion people in the world and I still can't find anyone entertaining?

Sally laughed nervously, making Sherlock look awkward - more awkward then before at least. "Right, so…We'll go in then," he said and knocked on the door.

A man came to the door in a few seconds. Tall, though thickly built. Thinning grey hair laid in untidy clumps on his largely bald scalp, and a smug face sat on a plump head attached to an equally plump neck. The man wasn't obese, it seamed, but large. He smiled when he saw Sally and Sherlock.

"Ah! I've been expecting you two, come in!" The two walked in the door, smiling and muttering their hellos, each receiving a firm handshake from the man's large hand. "My name is Rob, Rob Duffleman, if you need anything important call down. If you two decide the flat's not fit for you, then just tell me within two weeks and you're off free. Here're your keys - " He handed Sally and Sherlock each one small, bronze-coloured key, and Sally thought, _'This guy is definitely a big business man…'_ "And enjoy your stay!"

"Thank you," Sherlock said politely, and started up the stairs. Sally hesitated, watching Mr. Duffleman hustle off to his own section of the flat. Sherlock paused half way up and turned to her. "Well, are you coming up?"

Sally nodded and started after him. When they got to their door, Sherlock unlocked and pushed through into the room faster than Sally thought it possible to manuever keys. They stepped into a nice flat. It had only a small amount of furniture in the mainroom: A two-person, red couch that looked old but still comfy, and a less-comfy but still adequate chair in front of an empty fireplace, and desk in front of the fireplace that housed a dusty old tele. It looked pleasantly homey. Sally immediately liked it. There was a short hallway on either side of the room - one held the door, a small coatrack and led to a tinny kitchen, and the other led to two other doors that Sally assumed to be their bedrooms and a small bathroom. There was also also two doors along the walls of the main room, which Sally would learn were a broom closet and a basement. It was a nice place.

"It's so cute!" Sally exclaimed excitedly. She liked the idea of having a flat, and the fact that this was nicely accomadated and relatively cheep only heightened her lively anticipation.

Sherlock seemed to visibly flinch at the word "cute", something else Sally thought was only in cartoons, but she was starting to speculate that Sherlock was simply an over dramatic person. He _was_ after all wearing a coat that did flutter dramatically behind him. "Yes, well, it seems like it could be very nice, I agree," he said, and he forced another smile.

Sally nodded, and for the next hour, the two took several trips up and down the stairs and bringing their belongings up to the flat. Neither had a grey amount of things, though it still took a while to organize everything. Sally got the bedroom on the left side of the hallway, the one with aquamarine-green walls, and Sherlock got the bedroom with the grey-blue walls. Sally's room was slightly bigger, and it had a twin bed, as opposed to Sherlock's single, but Sherlock insisted that he have the other room. The only thing it had that Sally's didn't was a door connecting to the bathroom, which Sally thought rather odd he wanted, but accepted without too much question.

And then it was 6:30, and Sally was hungry. "Fancy anything to eat?" She said to Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch and typing on his laptop. He didn't answer, so Sally asked again.

Sherlock looked up, and asked "Monday isn't it?"

Sally wasn't sure what this question suggested, but answered, "No, Tuesday. Er, why exactly?"

"I ate on Sunday, I'm good for now," and he turned back to his work. Sally stared at him with disbelief.

"You…haven't eaten since Sunday?" She asked.

Sherlock, without looking up from his laptop screen, snorted, "Eating slows the thinking process, and is utterly boring. I don't eat much."

"Well, that would've been nice to know before I moved in with you," she said, her tone for some reason indignant.

Sherlock paused his typing, and looked at her seriously. "And why is that?"

Sally was thrown by the question. Honestly, she wasn't sure why she had said that. It was just one of those things you could say that don't make very much sense, she supposed. "Well…flatmates should know the worst about each other, shouldn't they?"

Sherlock looked at her in honest interest, "Do they? Well, in that case…I play the violin, when I'm thinking. And sometimes I go silent for days. And I don't sleep or eat at proper times, when I _do_ sleep or eat that is. Oh, and I like to do experiments. You?"

Sally stood, processing the information blankly, not sure what to say. "I…I haven't much of a patience, and I, um, come home at late hours." She didn't say anything more. After all, she, like most others, did not think about her weaknesses, if she could help it. It was another one of those unquestionable things.

Sherlock nodded, and the conversation was unanimously ended. Sally ordered Chinese. She ate it alone. She didn't offer Sherlock any. At 11:30, she went to bed. "Good night," she said to Sherlock as she passed the couch, where he still had not moved from. Sherlock didn't respond, and Sally fell asleep.

At 4:00 am, she awoke to the sound of something that sounded suspiciously like glass breaking. She heard the loud swear of Sherlock, and rubbed her eyes, confused. Sherlock must have gotten a drink of water, broken a glass is all, she thought sleepily to herself, and fell back into her previous state of unconsciousness.

At 8:30 am, she got dressed and readied herself before stepping into their living room. The place was _transformed_ from last night. Newspapers and books lay opened on every table, along with glass tubes and rulers and other things Sally didn't recognize. Sherlock was in the kitchen, mixing something that was smoking dangerously, and glass lay shattered around his feet.

Sally went up to him after slipping in her shoes for protection, exasperatedly saying, "Sherlock, what did you _do_?"

Sherlock looked up. "It's for a case," he said matter-of-factly, as if this explained everything.

Sally sighed, "Well…Aren't you going to clean - "

"Oh _yes_!" Sherlock interrupted, with an excited yell. "I've gotten it, oh, Lestrade'll be furious." He grinned wildly at Sally, who was now thoroughly confused and more than a little annoyed. Sherlock did not seem to realize this and was suddenly out the door in a flurry of black hair and coat. "Going to the yard, feel free to make a pot, why don't you?" He said as he closed the door, leaving Sally standing in their now messy living room.

"_Sherlock_," she protested after him, but he was already gone. She sighed, and looked at the papers scattered about. The glass on the floor lay haphazardly around, just waiting to cut someone. Sally grudgingly got to work.

When Sherlock got back, it was well past 11:00 pm. Sally was sitting on the couch watching a cooking show when he came through the door, looking excited and grinning wildly.

"I picked up your mess," she said crossly.

"What? Oh, well, that's okay," he said distractedly, in a way that made her more than a bit angry. He started looking in the bookshelf for something.

"_All_ the glass, and your books," she added pointedly.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He easily slid a thickly binder book out of it's hiding place on the shelf flipped through it, finding the page he needed almost immediately.

"Sherlock!" Sally protested, but turned around to see Sherlock once again leaving, and ripped-out piece of paper fluttering in the strange consultant's hand.

This went on for three nights. Sally saw Sherlock in the morning, only to find he had made a mess that night, Sherlock would leave, Sally would clean, Sherlock would come home late and not thank her, and Sally would feel her grudge growing with every second. She felt like an overworked, unpaid housemaid. A very, _very pissed off_ housemaid.

However, the fourth night was different. On the fourth night, Sherlock had no case. The next morning, Sally came down to find Sherlock looking surprisingly domestic, tapping away on his laptop in his usual position on the couch, surrounded by nothing but orderly cleanliness. Sally was somewhat overjoyed.

But Sherlock did not move or talk for two more days. On the sixth day of living together, Sally finally got sick of seeing him sitting on the couch and yelled at him.

"Sherlock, you've been sitting there for_ 50 bloody hours_, what is wrong with you? Sherlock, are you _listening_ to me?" It was then that she noticed that Sherlock looked more than dazed. He looked…lost. She kneeled to get a better look. Sherlock's pupils were hugely, unnaturally dilated.

"Oh gosh, Sherlock, are you alright?" She asked worriedly.

He blinked up at her, silent and horribly pale. "I…" He fumbled with his coat pocket. "Yes, I…there wasn't a case, so…" he drifted back out.

Sally looked at him, horrified. She stuck her hand in his coat pocket herself, wondering what she'd find. It was a syringe. She dropped it with a gasp, horrified and disgusted. She didn't know what to do, so she called Lestrade.

"Hello?" Came the voice.

"Mr. Lestrade, it's me, Sally Donovan. It's Sherlock, he hasn't moved in two days, and I found a syringe, and…I'm pretty sure he's high. His pupils are really dilated."

Instead of hearing worry in Lestrade's tone, as she had expected, Sally heard…Exasperation? "Dammit, the fool…Thanks Sally, I'll come pick him up in a few minutes." A pause. A sigh. "So, how is he as a flatmate?"

Sally felt absolute rage growing within her. "I - he is the worst sodding flatmate alive," she scowled and hung up.

She glanced back at Sherlock, who was still staring blankly ahead. "…You idiot." She mumbled, and waited for Lestrade.

When Sherlock came out of his drug-induced daze, he found himself on Lestrade's couch. He was, soon after, reliably informed that he no longer had a flatmate. The next time she saw him, when she finally became a member of Scotland yard a year an a half later, Sherlock dutifully informed her of what happened to her in the last year, and Sally called him a freak for the first time. She also slapped him, to the delight of literally everyone in the room (except for the unfortunate victim of the slap, of course).

+-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-+

Present

"So, you never got a call from Mycroft?" John asked, sounding disbelieving. "Or, he didn't kidnap you?"

Sally frowned. "You mean Sherlock's brother? No, we've never talked."

"Well, he was pretty busy then, so I - " Lestrade said, stopping abruptly. John looked at him curiously, and Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. "We're friends, er, _colleagues_, you see, so I might've…just told him a bit about what Donovan was like. Not a lot, and if she'd lasted any longer, he would've seen her himself I'm sure…" Lestrade hurriedly said, and John was sure he was blushing slightly. The look on the DI's face was not unlike the defensive one John's took on when people assumed that he and Sherlock were more than flatmates: Bedmates, or shag mates, perhaps?

Sally looked annoyed. "I'm still here you know, stop talking like I'm not," she scowled at Lestrade. "And what were you doing befriending Sherlock's bloody brother and giving him information about me anyway?"

Lestrade looked flustered, "We can be friends if we want!" The childish sentence was out before the poor man could stop himself, and Sally let the topic fall out of sympathy. They sat in silence until Lestrade finally stopped the car, and Sally and John got out on either sides.

A/N: Right, um…if anybody noticed the slight plothole involving Lestrade throughout the last two chapters, I'm sorry! I write these stories as I go along, so…Yeah. I edited Chapters 4 and 5 to fix that, though it's really only three sentences that needed it. Thanks for reading and review!^^' I always reply if the site lets me 3


	7. Chapter 7

Warnings: Ooh, got lots for you this time: A good bit of swearing, including the eff word, guns, Moriarity being completely mental and creepy, mild panic attacks on the part of John, and use of the butt of a gun as a weapon^~^'.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Chapter 7 here!^^ The most drama at this chapter too, I believe. Oh, and there will be a sequel to this story :). It's going to be part of a series, probably with 3 (?) stories in it. But for now, on to finding Sherlock!

But right before that, I was wondering if the general interest of this story has gone down a bit? It seems I've not gotten as many reviews as before…I don't mean to complain but please please send me your input if you can, reviews are like $20 and a hug to me, and they make me write faster, seriously :) Even if it's just a "Hullo that's cool" or a "This sucks. Continue." Constructive criticism is equivalent to Christmas gifts 3 BUT enough involving my slight ego case, on to the story, please enjoy!^^'

**-Chapter Seven-**

"What's in this anyway," Sherlock rasped breathlessly in reference to the drip that was stuck in his forearm and glared angrily up at a grinning Moriarty. He was still lying in the same position on the basement floor as he had been an hour ago. He'd finally worked out that he was in Sally's and his old flat's basement, but it did nothing for him; The only way out was the door that Moriarty had obviously locked, and his phone had been removed from its place in his pocket.

Moriarty laughed his high pitched, bone chilling laugh. "Why my dear Sherlock, I couldn't possibly tell you that! Like I said, it would ruin the surprise! Though, it may be a mix between, mm, three drugs? Four? Can't really recall at the moment!" He laughed again.

Sherlock scowled and suddenly threw up to the side. It was the fourth time since being here, and it quickly turned into a series of pained coughs and dry heaves.

"Oh don't worry Sherlock," Moriarty said airily when he had stopped retching. "I sent them a clue. I'm sure they'll be showing up at any time now."

Sherlock frowned. "Since when do you give such easy hints?" He lay on his back, a tremor running through his body and he blinked forcefully several times, trying to get rid of the fuzzy lights that currently impeded and floated in front of his vision.

"Oh _Sherlock_, you know me so well!" Moriarty gasped with in surprise. "Well, I had 27 hours if free time, and you're always a _lovely_ distraction. Even when you're ill!" Moriarty gave a twisted giggle, "But testing Johnny-Boy and Scotland Yard isn't nearly as fun as testing you, so I thought, 'why not'? It's a nice, short distraction." He leaned closer to Sherlock, smiling dangerously, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you know what? I almost wish I'd waited for a larger portion of free time. Because you're _just_ _that_ _good_, Sherlock." He licked his lips, and stood back up, laughing like the madman he was.

+-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-+

John was a very moral man. He was patient and kind-hearted, and didn't usually resort to unneeded violence. But there were certain triggers that sent off John like a murder convict. One of these things was Sherlock.

That is to say, not Sherlock himself, but people hurting Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. John wasn't sure when Sherlock Holmes had become his, but he was perhaps a bit too aware of how gay it had sounded when he had socked Anderson in the jaw for calling Sherlock a freak again as he yelled, "Shut the _fuck_ up and stop being such a fucking _bastard_ to my Sherlock!" (John swore a lot when he was mad too.) He had stayed away from the yard for two full weeks before he showed his face again and he and Anderson hadn't exchanged so much as a hullo since.

That's why when John, Lestrade and Sally stepped out of Lestrade's police car to see the front of 141B, Livingstin Road surrounded by 10 guards and a large wooden sign nailed into the ground that said "Welcome home Pet," (It was one of those insert-a-name and event signs) John didn't spare a second thought before running angrily across the yard and knocking 5 of them out with the butt of his gun - which he had been keeping with him the entire time - within 30 seconds. Lestrade, who took care of 3 minions with the more peaceful approach of handcuffs, didn't approve, but at least John had only used the butt of the gun and not the other side. Sally, who was slightly disturbed and more than a bit frightened by John's savage and rather out of character outburst, took care of the last two men with her own handcuffs.

Once Lestrade had made sure all 10 men were locked securely in the other police cars that had came, he followed after John, who had only waited for Lestrade under the threat that the DI might "accidentally remember what Sherlock had told him about the murderer of the cabbie from The Study in Pink" if John didn't calm down that very instant and let Sally assist him in breathing properly. John would, of course, be mortified by his behavior later, but right now he was on the verge of a panic attack and was, quite simply put, freaking out.

He had been calm enough during the drive, even after Sally's story, but a lump of nervousness in his throat grew and pushed its way up so quickly by the time they got out of the car that John had barely realized how scared he was suddenly becoming. Seeing the flat, the minions, and the ever so taunting sign had been what triggered the crazed panic he felt when he ungracefully knocked the five minions out with his gun without any amount of personal safety. He had thrown his phone at one of them too, but it was surprisingly fine, if not a tad scratched now. Sally picked it up from the grass and gently but firmly placed it in his breast pocket. It wasn't so much, but somehow the kind act and the weight of the item in his pocket comforted him just a little.

Finally, Lestrade led John in to the house. It was very nice indeed, though now was definitely not he time to be looking at the house's ups and downs. The landlord seemed to be out, or else somehow completely oblivious to the half dozen police cars outside his house and the several people coming in. Sally assumed it was the first option.

John, who had calmed down a bit while Lestrade was collecting the minions but was still panicking considerably, suddenly said, "Why is he making it so easy?" His panicked edge to his voice had very obviously returned. "It's not right! We've got to, to be, missing something, or, or, maybe - "

"John!" Lestrade interrupted sharply. He had a lot of experience, though most of it grim, in getting people to stop making wild conclusions and face the facts. "Be quiet and come on. Maybe this _is_ a trap, but we haven't anything better to go on, now have we?"

John shook his head weakly, and Lestrade gave a curt nod. "Right, so calm down, collect yourself, and then we can go rescue that sodding idiot of a flatmate of yours."

John took a deep breath, tried to think a bit more clearly; He hadn't gotten this panicked since the week after he'd come back from Afghanistan and had let it all sink it that he was in London, not on a battlefield, and half of his friends were dead. It hadn't been pleasant, and it wasn't now. But this time he wasn't panicking for him, there was an actual, immediate danger to worry about. There was Moriarty and guns and bombs and _Sherlock_, _his Sherlock_. It was _dangerous_. God, why did he have to love danger so much?

John nodded, suddenly much calmer, and started down the cellar stairs behind Lestrade who led the way and in front of Sally. A few other officers walked behind them, a few feet away. The smell of damp and mold and stale air filled their nostrils and made them all crinkle their faces in slight disdain for a moment, though it was one of those smells that one gets very quickly used to. Like the smell of rain, or a new shirt. The three reached the door at the bottom of the stairs, and Lestrade turned around to face John.

"Listen, if I tell you to run, you _have_ to run, okay?" Lestrade ordered firmly.

John frowned. "What if Sherlock's in trouble?"

"Then I won't expect you to run," Lestrade said grimly. "God help me. But promise me anyways?"

"Okay," John said, slightly grateful for the enormous amount of patience and understanding the DI had for he, Sherlock, and everybody else in the world. Some might call him a pushover, but John simply called him saint like.

Lestrade nodded firmly and tried the door handle. Of course, it was locked, so he knocked. "Sherlock? Moriarty?" He called, loud enough for anybody on the other side of the wall to be able to hear him, but not loud enough to constitute as full out yelling. "Are you in there? Open up! This is the police!"

To John's surprise, the door opened right up, and the grinning face of Moriarty popped up. "Why _hello_ there!" He said loudly in mock surprise, "I wasn't expecting you!" He looked directly at John, and moved closer, though was soon blocked by Lestrade's form. Both Lestrade and John clutched their gun tightly. Moriarty clucked his tongue in annoyance before continuing to loom over John in a rather promiscuous fashion. "Oh John, hell-lo there love," he said and giggled in a way that made John shiver. "I'm sure your here for your owner, are you not?"

At the mention of Sherlock John's anger returned full force and he snarled at Moriarty. Before Lestrade could restrain him, John was launching himself at Moritarty all fists and roars. The man easily dodged John and smirked.

"Oh _John_, I never thought you were one to fight when you could help someone else, even at your own expense. That George Cross and Military Crosses you hide from everybody so well certainly say otherwise," Moriarty cooed, and John was sure he was batting his eyes. However the meaning of those words finally sunk in a moment later, and he looked past Moriarty to see none other than Sherlock Holmes lying in the far corner of the room.

John quickly ran over to his currently unconscious friend, ignoring Moriarty's slow, "You know John, if Sherlock hadn't already taken you for himself, I'd certainly like to adopt you myself." Lestrade had his gun pointed at Moriarty and Sally was putting handcuffs on the man, and everybody was thinking the same two things: First, was Sherlock alright, and second, _why was this so easy?_

John was the only one thinking only the first thought though. He felt his flatmates burning cheeks worriedly, gently tapping the left one in an attempt to gently wake Sherlock. The man was completely unresponsive. John leaned his head against Sherlock's chest, listening for the heartbeat that he was glad to find. Thready, but there. John barely noticed he was crying until one of his tear drops splashed onto Sherlock's pale cheek. "You idiot," John whispered weakly, before grabbing Sherlock's hand as a comfort to both himself and he hoped to Sherlock, even if the man wasn't awake. He glanced at the drip, horrified at what might be in it, but decided this wasn't the best moment to worry about it. He turned around and glared at Moriarty with more malice than he was sure he ever had before, only to get more angry when Moriarty's grin only widened.

John almost missed it, when Moriarty's lips moved ever so softly and he said in a completely calm and almost cheery tone, "Shoot." He almost missed the red light that suddenly positioned itself on his chest, and the quick metal bullet that planted itself over it. He did miss the panic that resulted after.

Sally rushed to his side, terrified and pushing her thin fingers and handkerchief onto the wet red patch that was blossoming over John's shirt, not realizing that the phone she had put in John's pocket earlier had just saved his life. Lestrade gave a loud roar at Moriarty, had the other officers take care of the disturbingly obedient man, and called the medics that were positioned in front of the flat over through his walkie talkie. He then ran over to Sherlock, yelling at John on his way over to the man, "You _better_ not die today Dr. Watson! Not on my watch!"

Sherlock didn't seem to be in very much better condition than John at the moment; His breathing was labored and he was shivering desperately despite it being only slightly damp in the room. Lestrade quickly dismantled the drip, so that no more of the sinister mystery drug continued to make its way into Sherlock's system. He left the needle part in though, as he was sure it wouldn't be a good idea for he, who had no training in the medical field, to attempt to get it out. He kneeled next to Sherlock and brushed the man's sweaty hair out of his eyes gently; It had become less curly from wet. "Oh Sherlock, what to do with you?" He said softly. "Always have part of any interesting case, even if you're the victim."

A/N: Right, done with Chapter 7! I know it might have been slightly anti-climatic and OOC but this story's already gotten much longer than I had expected it to: It had originally meant to be only 3 or 4 chapters at most and no had Moriarity at all laughs. But I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, thanks for reading, and please please **please **→→→→

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	8. Chapter 8

Warnings: Um, pretty obvious pre-slash (finally!). Really fluffy, this chapter is. But I have to say the full-out slash won't come for a while, in the sequel. There'll be a kiss though! ~ At the very end, probably.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: First off, I'm sorry to everyone who I told this would be up a few days ago! I thought I had deleted it somehow and had to re-write it, and then found it again after I re-wrote it and so re-wrote it again =_='. I haven't decided if I want to make this a long story or if it'll be a series of shorter stories yet. But if I choose the second option, this'll be the second-to-last chapter (most likely), plus the epilogue, which would lead directly into the sequel! That will, by the way, lead directly from this story :). Please tell me whether or not you'd follow the sequel if it's made.

Secondly, THANK YOU so much for all the reviews I got for the last chapter^^. It made me so happy and cheered me up while I re-wrote 8; I even got some ideas I added into the chapter from the review of the wonderful acids-and-bases and a special thanks to kitsmits, who gave me a bunch of constructive criticism and also pointed out my misspelling of Moriarty throughout this whole story^^'! I'm seriously overwhelmed by the response of this story that I thought no-one bother to would read :) This might just be the longest chapter yet at OVER 4.2k words! Enjoy this chapter and please remember to review!^^ I've thought about doing that thing authors sometimes do where they demand a certain number of review before they update, but I decided it sounds too self-centered for me to do (No offense to those of you who do do that, it's an extremely cunning method!). However I will ask that you please review because they make my day :D And they honestly do make me write faster - I wrote most of the first version of this chapter right after receiving 3 lovely reviews and most of the second version right after receiving 5 :). Okay sorry for the overly long author's note, please enjoy the chapter!^^

**-Chapter Eight-**

The first thing John thought when he woke up was _'I wonder if Sherlock can cook?'_ The second was that his body felt very heavy. He subconsciously let a small groan escape his lips and was surprised when he felt a very warm hand cover his. Slowly, carefully, John opened his eyes. The brightness of whatever room he was in made him blink forcefully several times before everything came into focus correctly. Once his eyes had become a bit more accustomed to the lighting, he saw white. White walls, white sheets, white counters, just _white_, everywhere; He had to be in the hospital.

John's eyes then followed the arm of the hand that covered his to the person it was attached to. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw a tired and slightly disheveled looking Sherlock sitting in a chair next to his bed and staring uncertainly down at him. "Oh, you're awake," he said blandly. John could see the faint bags under the tall man's eyes and his hair was even messier than usual. Being the doctor that he was, John could also tell that Sherlock had a bit of a fever by touch, but decided it was only natural, considering all they had gone through yesterday. Or was it more that? It had to have been, there was no way Sherlock would be able to sit by his bed like this if only a night had passed.

John laughed despite the dark and confusing situation he found himself in, though it was soon stopped by a grunt of pain. His chest hurt a lot, and for some reason he felt absolutely _wiped_, despite just waking up. "You knew when I would wake up hours ago, I bet," John said, looking up at Sherlock with an exhausted expression that said 'We really need to talk but I'm too damn tired to do it now.'

Sherlock chuckled slightly. "Yes, I suppose I did." He smirked, but looked rather awkward. "I…I'm sorry, that I…"

"Got kidnapped and worried me half to death?" John asked in good humour.

"That you got shot," Sherlock said blankly.

"Oh." John said, trying to mask slight disappointment he wasn't sure why he was feeling. "It's…fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock nodded, then said thoughtfully, "You said those same words the day I met, you at Angelo's."

"Said what?" John was already rather tired, but he still wanted to ask how Sherlock was okay.

"That it was all fine," the taller man replied, and he seemed nervously distracted. "Honestly John don't you remember anything useful?" He scoffed, disdain laced within his voice.

John sighed, mock exasperated. In truth, he was immensely relieved. Relieved that Sherlock was somehow okay, that Sherlock was being Sherlock, and Sherlock was sitting there with him. It was another few moment before he said with realization, "Wait, you consider that useful to know?"

Sherlock almost seemed to blush, and he cleared his throat, "Don't be ridiculous, John."

John nodded, ever so pleased with himself at the moment for noticing the meaning behind Sherlock's words; It was the feeling a child got when he finally got praise from a hard to impress father. "So…What happened, then?" He asked.

"After you were shot, you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said, and struggled to sit up. He grunted once, but was able to do so without an extreme hassle.

Sherlock made sure that John was alright before explaining how Sally's action of putting John's phone in his pocket had essentially saved him, and he'd be fine, though Sherlock deduced that Moriarty without a doubt had wanted it that way: The objective was to play - Sherlock said the word with pure disgust - with them, not kill them. Not this time around at least. He also said that five days had passed, and the only reason John was not already released was because he had gone comatose after his surgery. That worried John, because it meant Sherlock had been ill enough to be kept in the hospital for five days and weak enough to stay there (John knew from past experiences that Sherlock usually got out of the hospital at least three days earlier than any doctor recommended no matter what, due to his insistency, good acting, and constant pestering of nurses). John didn't comment, but Sherlock saw the worried look on his face and scowled.

"I'm _fine_, John, it's because Mycroft insisted." John didn't enjoy having his mind read, - he'd have to look up how to hide his apparently obvious emotions when they got home, he decided - but the fact that Mycroft had kept Sherlock in gave him slight reassurance.

"Sure," John said, and Sherlock gave him a look that made criminals scared. He was used to it though; He'd become quite adept at the art of ignoring the world's only consulting detective.

"Really John, it was mostly from my being…_ill_," he said the word like it was poison, "from the flu. The liquid in the drip was mostly morphine."

"_Mostly_ Morphine?" John didn't miss the fact that there had been something else in the drip too.

"Well, mostly morphine, and a small mix between intravenous oxycodone and modified benzoylmethylecgonine," Sherlock said, clearly uncomfortable at the horrified look John was giving him. "It was a very small amount, John," he emphasized. John decided not to say anything, but he was absolutely _furious_ at Moriarty for giving _his_ Sherlock those _hateful_ drugs.

"The boy who shot you said he knows you," Sherlock interrupted, changing the subject from him to John. John recognized this, but let it happen.

"It was a _child_ working for Moriarty?" John said, astonished and more than a little appalled that the criminal even hired children. "And he knows me? What's his name?"

"Wouldn't say," Sherlock said annoyed. "He called himself Amy."

John was very confused now. "Amy? I thought you said he was a boy?"

Sherlock sighed,"_Yes,_ John, he is, obviously. But he _said_ his name is Amy Pond, which is why I'm sure it's not his real name."

"Well, I don't know of a little boy who calls himself Amy Pond, but I do know who Amy Pond is." John said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

Sherlock looked honestly surprised. "You do?"

"Yes, she's a character in Doctor Who! Don't you remember _anything_ after we watch it?" John scoffed.

"I usually delete it right after," Sherlock admitted. "Unless there's something useful."

John laughed, "Of course you do. So when can I see this boy?"

"You can't," Sherlock said shortly.

John raised an eyebrow. "And why not?"

"Because, Moriarty escaped 14 hours after he was arrested without a bit of evidence, and he brought the boy with him."

"Oh," John said, and he found he was now struggling to keep his eyes from closing. "When can we go home, Sherlock?" He asked tiredly.

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile when John called Baker Street home. "Tomorrow."

"The doctors would let me home only one day after waking up from a coma?" John asked tiredly, his voice disbelieving.

"You woke up once yesterday." Sherlock corrected immediately, though he looked like he regretted it a second after.

"I don't remember it," John said sheepishly.

"You wouldn't, you were only awake for a minute or two, and fell right back to sleep," Sherlock answered in a tone that was as close to understanding as John had ever heard.

"Oh, well, right then." John said, and he yawned. "But do you really think the doctors will order my release tomorrow?"

"No, but I can arrange for that," Sherlock said simply.

This made John chuckle, because he knew Sherlock easily could and _would_. Unfortunately, however embarrassing as it may be for him, John was already starting to feel the pulls of sleep edging him towards unconsciousness. Sherlock saw this and knew that if he wanted to say what he needed to say, he'd have to do it now. "John," he said awkwardly.

"What, Sherlock?"

"…I'm sorry, that you…I mean...thank you. For finding me." Sherlock ended ungracefully.

John smiled, because it was a rare occurrence when Sherlock said 'I'm sorry' or 'Thank you' at all, let alone at the same time, and it was nice to be appreciated every once in the while. Even if it had bern sloppy. "You're welcome, Sherlock," he said affectionately, and closed him eyes.

John knew Sherlock was probably still watching him, which might have been unnerving in other situations, but at the moment he was too tired to care. "Oh, Sherlock?" He breathed.

"Mmm?" Sherlock's deep baritone against the familiar hospital busy was almost calming for John in a strange sort of way.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said softly, not opening his eyes. Sherlock didn't answer, and John hadn't expected him to. But John was happy, because Sherlock was here, and Sherlock was alright, and Sherlock had kept his hand upon John's the entire time.

+-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-+

Due to a large fight between Sherlock and John's doctor, John was not released from the hospital until 22:00 pm the next night. It was late, but it was still four days earlier than the hospital had wanted, so John was fine with it. However they _did_ give him a considerable amount of pain medication before he left, - more than Sherlock was really comfortable with - so he was really only half lucid when Sherlock helped him into the cab that he had called to wait for them in front of the hospital.

John's chest still hurt, but he was used to pain. The bullet to his shoulder had hurt at least three times as much, and his _leg_ had even hurt more than that before, so he could deal with it. They rode in a comfortable silence, and John shifted his stare from Sherlock, to the window, back to Sherlock. He smiled lazily, making Sherlock shift uncomfortably.

"John," he snapped irritably. "Don't take too many of those pills. You have barely any resilience and having you even stupider than most people is near unbearable."

John, to Sherlock's annoyance, giggled. "I didn't know you liked me that much Sherlock," he said, his words partially running together.

Sherlock looked away, embarrassed. "Of course I like you," he muttered, and John laughed again.

John fell asleep against the window pane within the fifteen minutes it took them to drive from the hospital back to 221B. Sherlock himself looked exhausted, but as usual he did not succumb to sleep so easily. John didn't know if this no-sleeping habit of Sherlock's was because of an actual sleeping problem or if the man was just stubborn about resting (he pitied Mrs. Holmes in that respect, a child Sherlock must have been hell to put to nap). He suspected it was mostly the second option.

When they arrived back home, Sherlock gave John's shoulders a good shake to wake him up before leading his still half sleeping flatmate to the door of their flat. The good Mrs. Hudson was there immediately of course, and gave both of her boys tight embraces before shooing them up the stairs with the promise of tea and biscuits momentarily. John had a bit of trouble with the stairs and had to take them slowly, but Sherlock was surprisingly patient and even waited for him at the top step before unlocking the door to their flat. It looked clean, so either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft had decided to give the place a good tidying up. By the look of indignity on Sherlock's face, John guessed it was Mycroft's doing.

Mrs. Hudson returned a minute later with the promised tea and biscuits, of which John indulged happily ("I'm glad you like them dear, but just this time, I'm _not_ your housekeeper!"). Sherlock sipped at the tea but didn't eat anything until Mrs. Hudson threatened to take his skull again unless he got some nutrition in that body of his, so he did reluctantly eat one biscuit.

She left when she made sure her boys were done eating and comfortable and left with the dishes and the promise on John's part that he would call if he needed anything. John sat on the couch with the Union Jack pillow behind him and a red knitted blanket he had received from Clara the Christmas before he was sent to Afghanistan draped over his knees and Sherlock sat in the chair. It was a change from their usual positions, but the couch was more comfortable and Sherlock insisted John sit there, being uncharacteristically worried about John's comfort.

"Want to watch some tele, then?" John asked tiredly. The time in which the medication made him a bit loopy had passed and now he was just a bit sleepy.

Sherlock gave him a look that said _'obviously, no,' _but got up to anyway and flicked the power on. It was still on the channel that they had been watching almost exactly one week ago, and House reruns were once again running. Sherlock stiffened for a fleeting moment before resuming his slouched position in the chair, but not before John had time to notice.

John didn't have a problem with the channel itself, or the show House, but due to the fact that the last time they were here at Baker Street, watching the same channel and the same show Sherlock had gotten _kidnapped_, he decided they might wait a few more days before watching House, MD again. "Change it?" John asked wearily, and Sherlock, who had found the remote after a minute of searching behind the table the television set sat on, nodded and tapped the remote's channel down button a few times before John said, "Oh, Sherlock, stop here!" and pointed to a pretty red-haired woman with a Scottish drawl on the screen. "_That's_ Amy Pond, the character in Doctor Who."

Sherlock looked at the actor on the screen who was currently fighting with a suave man toting a bow tie and nodded. "The boy had red hair such as hers," he observed.

They stayed on the channel that was running Doctor Who, watching Matt Smith battle some metal alien as The Doctor with a screwdriver John insisted was legendary and Sherlock reassured was crap plastic. Ten minutes later, John found himself staring at Sherlock again.

"John, what?" Sherlock growled.

John was silent for a moment more, looking thoughtfully over at his flatmate. The man was, quite simply, rather beautiful. "Come here," he said quietly, and hit the spot on the couch next to him affectionately.

Sherlock's face could have been described as priceless; He looked stricken. "John, perhaps that pain medication is - "

"No no," John interrupted impatiently. "I'm completely lucid. I just want you to sit next to me. " John should have been embarrassed, he really should have. But for some reason he wasn't, not tonight. _Tonight_, it didn't seem to him as if Sherlock was someone to be embarrassed by, because he was just _Sherlock_. His flatmate, his best friend. "You look cold." He yawned before tapping the seat next to him once more. "Come on."

Sherlock looked hesitant, but he slowly got up and joined John on the couch. John smiled, and sat straighter up so that he could lean against Sherlock in a was far from intimate, or flirty, or anything suggestive. It was just Sherlock, and it was comfortable. John threw the red blanket over the both of them, and it was fortunately just large enough to cover all of John and most of Sherlock. Sherlock relaxed bit more, but was still rather stiff. John shifted so he was leaning against Sherlock lightly. He looked at the taller man as to ask if it was alright and Sherlock did not protest, so John let himself move closer so it was more comfortable for the both of them.

They watched Doctor Who like that for half an hour, John leaning on Sherlock and Sherlock eventually relaxing against John. It was the warmest Sherlock could remember feeling in ages, and he smiled inwardly. He had been a bit surprised and unused to the physical closeness, but not really _opposed_ to it. Sherlock, contrary to popular belief, did _not_ have space issues. It was more that he didn't like to be touched by people he considered idiots, and his list of not-idiots was very short. Mycroft (though he wouldn't admit it), Lestrade (sometimes) and John (always) were the three people that were on the list he saw regularly. Mummy and Irene were also on that list, but he barely ever saw the two women in person.

"Sherlock," John said peacefully a few minutes after Sherlock had moved to the couch.

"What?"

"Open up," John grinned, and reached for his pants.

"What? J - joh - omph - !"

"Shut up, Sherlock." John quieted him and looked at his watch as he held a thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't know where or when John had gotten the device, but he _certainly_ didn't like it in his mouth, let alone as a surprise. He gave John his look that scared criminals again, but John, once again, easily ignored him. "I'm cleverer than you think I am, and I'm still a doctor, and I believe you have a fever. So be quiet and let me do as I want," John said, his tone slightly cross but affectionate.

"I may be stupid, but I did go to uni, Sherlock." John said when Sherlock started to talk again. "And it is my professional opinion that you feel too warm right now."

John ignored the mutter of "'magina'on" from Sherlock. About 20 seconds later, when the thermometer finally beeped and John pulled the thermometer out of Sherlock's mouth to examine it, Sherlock said loudly, "John, you're the one who got shot, I _hardly_ think you should be worrying about me right now. There is no need to be so difficult, I am completely fine."

John snorted," Sure, _I'm_ the one being difficult." He was frowning. "Sherlock, you have a fever of 38.4, why didn't you tell me you felt ill?"

"I feel fine," Sherlock said, obviously annoyed. "And that's hardly a fever." He gritted his teeth when John gave him a look that made him feel like a child again. He honestly _didn't_ feel ill, if not slightly cold now (_'Funny how you only notice something once somebody comments on it,'_ Sherlock thought darkly). Whether that was because he had suffered much worse before or because he simply did not pay attention to his body's needs, he wasn't quite sure. He'd have to test it later.

"Sherlock, _please_, at least take some of the Paracetamol? You don't have to take the flu medication, I doubt it would do very much for you, but at least take something for that fever, please?" John pleaded slightly, and the look in the good doctor's eyes was somehow enough to make Sherlock give a peeved groan and stand quickly.

"Fine," he snapped, shivering slightly at the cooler air he was exposed to out from under the blanket. As fast as he could, he paced over to the kitchen table, took an unmeasured swig from the bottle of medicine and returned to his place on the couch next to John. John didn't exactly _approve_ of the way Sherlock had taken the medicine, but was pleased enough that he had taken any at all. He happily lifted the blanket up so that Sherlock could settle back down next to John comfortably, who still shivering just a little. The consulting detective was rather annoyed that he was now feeling a little sick because John had to mention it, and that he had obeyed John's orders so easily. However he forgot about it easily when John resumed leaning against Sherlock. He didn't stiffen this time.

The episode of Doctor Who finished and the movie David Copperfield came on. Sherlock wordlessly turned it off and John didn't mind, he'd seen the movie before and though it was good, didn't feel the need to see it again. The room was dark, and Sherlock thought about the last few days' events while enjoying the warmth of John's body against his. The clock on the DVD player below the TV that John had bought last month read 11:23. _'John could have more pain medication,' _he thought slowly. But he really didn't want to get up again. However if John was in pain, he supposed he could sacrifice their warm position for a few moments.

"John," Sherlock said quietly. "Do you want to take another pill now?"

Sherlock could feel John shake his head into his side, and the blanket moved slightly. "No, I'm fine," John answered, his words ever so slightly slurred. Sherlock was secretly cheered at this.

"Alright," Sherlock said, and the two fell back into their comfortable silence. Sherlock had actual started to feel sleepy for once, and he allowed himself to close his eyes.

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at what had happened in the last few hours. The last time he had fallen asleep next to somebody had been when he and Mycroft had to share a bed while on a forced family trip with Mummy. Neither brother had wanted to go, but neither would dare refuse their mother's request. That had been 15 years ago. But this time, he and the man beside him weren't playing mind games and giving each other threats of blackmail. Sherlock found himself actually comfortable, and _enjoying_ himself!

"Sherlock?" John's voice came through the darkness a few minutes later.

"What?" Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

John shuffled around a bit so that he was now less leaning against Sherlock and more on top of the man's chest. When he was done moving, he continued, "Can you cook? I was just wondering," John added quickly.

Sherlock smiled, "Yes."

"Can you cook _well?_" John asked.

"Alright," was Sherlock's surprisingly modest answer. "Can you?" As soon as he asked, he realized it was a stupid question. _'I must really be tired,'_ he thought rather pathetically.

But to his relief, John just laughed. "You didn't think those home cooked meals we have _always_ came from Mrs. Hudson do you?"

Sherlock smiled, "No."

The conversation ended and Sherlock was nearly asleep when John murmured in a way that told Sherlock his flatmate was also very close to sleep, "G'night, Sherlock"

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock replied, his voice not loosing the naturally orderly tone it nearly always held, but much softer than usual. It was amazing, he mused, that John, simple, plain, perfectly mundane John (though for some reason, he really wasn't) could make him act so _normally._ Maybe it was infectious.

Both Sherlock and John fell asleep within the next minute. It was the best sleep that Sherlock had gotten in a very long time.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'm almost glad I had to write this chapter 3 times over (okay not really) because it's a lot better than either of the first two attempts :) Thanks for standing with me even though it's late!^^' Oh, and late Happy 4th of July to those of you in America (this really is not the fic to congratulate that in, is it^^'?) ! I hope you enjoyed and please give me your feedback, good or bad, please tell me what you **think**

**by **

**+ PRESSING +**

**Ø THAT Ø**

**BUTTON :) :)**

**BELLOW! :D :D :D**


	9. Chapter 9

Warnings: Kiss 3 Also Moriarty pushing buttons, literally.

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Hello there, my wonderful and loyale followers! So, THIS IS IT, the final chapter! I know, it came a lot quicker than I thought it would too. Though some of you were under the impression that the story was over last chapter anyways, so maybe not^^'. Yes, there will be a very tiny kiss in this chapter. Don't like, don't read. But I really have loved writing this story and have been literally overwhelmed by the positive response it's gotten :'). On a side note, I am currently in the process of getting a beta, so the sequel will hopefully be much better. If you didn't know, I update my profile regularly to reflect how far I am with each story I am writing :). So with that please enjoy and review!

~CHAPTER NINE~

When John woke up, Sherlock was still next to him. He hadn't expected the man to disappear again, but the underlying fear had been present, he now realized. Sherlock had fallen to his side and John's head rested on it. It was embarrassing, to say the least, but John found himself strangely reluctant to move; It was warm and felt safe.

However John did eventually coax himself to sit up, at which point he realized how much of a miracle it was that Sherlock, Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, was lying on a couch with _another man_, _sleeping_. And it wasn't even an experiment (Well, he didn't believe it was)! John smiled to himself and watched his flat mate breathe for another minute - perhaps a bit too intently for a just a flat mate - before forcing himself to stand and stretch. The clock read 10:17 am, and John realized it was the longest he had slept in ages (and not in a hospital, that was). He was sure the situation was the same for Sherlock.

John stood silently, taking care not to wake the consulting detective. He noticed the dull throb he felt in his chest, but ignored it; He'd take his medication later. Though John had to admit it did feel rather good to be in that state of dope the drugs easily reduced him to, he didn't exactly like it. It made him feel defenseless and too little like himself. He shuddered to think of what Sherlock had been like when he had used drugs regularly. John knew Sherlock still had a small stash of cocaine and needles under the floorboards, which he had been shocked at finding and strongly disapproved of, but Sherlock promised he had no desire to use it. John tried to convince himself that Sherlock absolutely meant that, but found himself absentmindedly hammering in a nail or two every few weeks or so over the loose floor board when Sherlock was out. He was sure Sherlock knew this, Sherlock knew everything, but so far all the nails were still perfectly intact, showing no signs of being removed. John couldn't help but feel a smidgen proud.

John put the kettle on and sat on a stool that stood next to the kitchen table, watching steam turn the silver pot's shine duller and small droplets of condensation drip down the smooth metal surface, finally landing on the stove with a deep hiss. He found it somewhat therepedic and soon felt his eyes flicker tiredly. Honestly, he wanted to settle back under the red blanket next to Sherlock.

That thought alone made him jerk awake very unpleasantly. He told himself he wanted to sleep next to… someone else because it was warm and he was still sleepy. It was most definately _not_ because he _enjoyed_ sleeping next to that certain someone, or liked the way his body easily curled against John's own, or the way his heart beat steadily throughout John's own body…Dammit. John felt like an idiot.

He'd never felt any attraction to another man before, had never wanted to sleep curled aside another man before (aside from a drunken and forcibly forgotten one night stand with a classmate in university)…He'd never even _kissed_ someone without hair at least down to their shoulders (this still applied to the classmate)! John wasn't a homophobe, didn't think any _worse_ about gays, - his sister was one for God's sake - but the thought of he being one _himself_ made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. And what would his mum think? She was utterly crushed when he found Harry kissing a girl in her room. Yet if it were Sherlock, then maybe…_maybe_ he could make exceptions?

But no, John had never heard of Sherlock outing anyone, _ever_, and as far as he could tell, the consulting detective was asexual; Completely uninterested in anybody of any gender. John had thought that guy flat mates were supposed to have chats about girls they wanted to sleep with and the outcome of the last football game, not run around the streets of London getting shot at and sleeping on the couch together in a very intimate position. Apparently this wasn't the case with Sherlock. Of course, after their first conversation at Angelo's, John got the notion that Sherlock might lean a bit more towards men, but still…The idea of Sherlock with anyone, man or woman, just seemed…_wrong_. So, _so_ wrong.

John grimaced at the way he was actually trying to evaluate his male flat mate's sexuality to determine whether or not he had ever had a chance with him. Not that he wanted a chance with Sherlock, not really. Or at least, he hoped.

The kettle whistled and woke John from his odd and disturbing thoughts and he quickly turned the stove off, hoping the high pitched noise hadn't woken Sherlock. John had no such luck though, of course.

"Mm…John?" He heard Sherlock's sleepy voice from over the couch back. John nearly smiled, because he'd never heard Sherlock sound so half asleep before. He'd never heard Sherlock half asleep at all, actually.

"Yeah, Sherlock," John answered, "Just fixing us a cuppa is all." He could hear Sherlock shifting under the blanket as he poured the hot water into two mugs. The blue one was Sherlock's, because blue was Sherlock's favourite colour, and the yellow and green striped one was John's, because it was the only other clean mug he could find without looking too hard.

"How'd you sleep?" John asked while dipping the tea bags into the hot water. He immediately regretted asking this because one, he _knew_ how Sherlock had slept, he'd been there the whole time, and two, he sounded like a nice little husband.; Bringing his lover a nice hot cup of tea in their favourite mug to enjoy after they'd woken up together. John started to wish he hadn't invited Sherlock to kip next to him last night. Well, sort of wished. It was an 'I kind of wish I didn't do that but I'm rather fine with it,' sort of feeling, which John was more than a little disturbed by because he _was_ fine with it.

"Well," he heard Sherlock say, and the taller man yawned. "Better than usual."

John felt himself blush and forced himself to make it go away before turning around and walking back to the couch where Sherlock was with the cups of tea in his hands. "_Here_," he said with a little too much emphasis as he gave it to the consulting detective. He was suddenly blushing again, _why was he blushing_? John looked away, embarrassed, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

He at least seemed to have the good grace to ignore it though, and accepted the tea without another word. Sipping it carefully, he smiled. "Thanks."

John was a little thrown by that, since Sherlock never said thank you when he made the other man tea. He wondered if Sherlock had been a lot sicker than he let on. Sometimes he said thank you sarcastically when Sherlock ordered John to make a pot, John ordered Sherlock to use manners, and Sherlock replied with a haughty, "Fine, _thank you_ for making me tea then." At which point John was ready to throw the kettle at the consulting detective's head, not quite noticing that he was already starting to make the drink.

"Er, you're welcome," John said cautiously and sat back down next to him. "You…feel alright?" He leaned over and felt Sherlock's face, already completely forgetting that he was supposed to be discouraging himself from that kind of behaviour.

Sherlock pulled away and scowled like he had last night. "I'm _fine_," he said, and frowned. "Shouldn't you be taking your pain meds?"

"You still have a fever," John pointed out, untactful avoiding the question.

"_John_," Sherlock said warningly, reminding John of when his mum used to before she counted down from 3 to make him do whatever she wanted, which for some reason had always worked.

"Fine, _no_." John snapped.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked directly.

"I - I don't know, I don't like them!" John said irritably. "And piss off; You aren't exactly good about taking your medicine either."

"I did take it though," Sherlock pointed out, and John pouted.

"I'm not in pain, so there's not point." John said finally. Sherlock raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "I'm _not_!" John cried.

"Really?" Sherlock asked seriously.

"Sherlock - Yes _really_! Stop being a - a _jerk_! I'll take it if I'm in pain, I promise. But I'm not _now_ so I'm not taking it!" John was getting much too flustered for his own good.

There was a long pause before Sherlock finally nodded. "Okay."

"_Thank_ you," John said sourly, and sipped at his tea. He was interrupted by this act of obvious disdain when his phone dinged, signaling he had gotten a text.

"Good job. Next time it won't be so easy. Love, Jim." John read aloud.

Sherlock's face hardened. "You think he means it'll happen soon?  
>John asked him.<p>

"No, not yet. He has to wait for a while, for when he's bored again." Sherlock said grimacing.

"Oh." John said, and suddenly Sherlock kissed him. It was a quick kiss, no tongue, just a little peck on the lips, before Sherlock stood and walked back towards his room, closing the door with a dull thud. John remained on the couch, absolutely mortified at both Sherlock and himself.

He was mortified at Sherlock because Sherlock had just _kissed_ him, a strait guy with a girlfriend, without any warning at all. John was mortified with himself because, well, he'd _liked_ it. He wouldn't mind it if it happened again. Suddenly John's life seemed so much more complicated.

~-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-~the end.

And that's it folks!^^ Once again, thank you SO MUCH for your support through this, I couldn't have done it without you :). I know, I'm horrible, I'm leaving this story at two drop-offs (kisses and Amy Pond). Please follow the sequel if you can, When I Called For You (title may change)! The following is what I've been calling the epilogue, but realized it really isn't that, so it is the bridge between/preview of the sequel. Enjoy!

**EDIT**: Sequel, When I Called For You, is up!

~-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-~sequel~

"Hello Doctor Watson. I'm Amy Pond." Said the boy, and his voice paused as he took a shaky breath. "I know who you are. I know - "Another pained shudder, "Know how kind you are. I know you'll never leave anyone who needs your help." He gave a sob, and ended quickly. "So come and get me."

The boy who called himself Any Pond turned to face the older man behind him and clicked the black cassette player's recording button off. "I've done it," he hissed through silent tears. "So let him go, _now_!"

The man laughed and pressed a button on the device he held in his left hand. Amy Pond screamed in pain and passed out in a heap on the floor.

The man with the button clicked his tongue, satisfied. "I'm afraid I can't," he said to the unconscious boy, smiling. "You seem, the game isn't over yet." And he laughed and left the room.

~-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-goodbye!~

One final goodbye, thank you, and REVIEW!^^


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